Monday, March 21, 2005

Sally the Camel Has...No Head.

If the gods will have it that I have to be at work today, and worse, that I have to make two photocopies of a six-hundred page manuscript one copy at a time, and even crummier, that Brad will leave today while I'm at work, and, lousiest of all, that my iPod is heartbreakingly M.I.A., then the least they could do is magically refill my box of Barnum's Animal Crackers while I'm not looking. I'm not asking for the transformation of my Poland Springs water into a nice merlot (or, less suspiciously, a solid half-liter of vodka), I'm only looking for a handful of miraculous cookies. I just ate the head of my last camel and I'm pretty sad about it.

My computer says it's 12:34, and as such it's time to make a wish: please, please let a couple of zebras and maybe a polar bear appear in this stupid box.

While I give that a moment to kick in, I'd like to recognize that perhaps the reason this cracker-muliplication miracle may not come to pass is because I flagrantly watched South Park and ate bagels during the hours which, in my childhood, would have been occupied by Palm Sunday Mass. To be honest, I didn't even realize that yesterday was Palm Sunday until my boss mentioned it this morning. I'm the ex-altar girl, ex-choir girl, and ex-Catholic who wandered around this Ash Wednesday wondering how the hell so many people managed to smear newspaper ink on themselves. Luckily, I curbed my urge to tell a woman on the subway she had "some shmutz on her face" long enough to figure out that it would've been religious persecution to do so.

A little crud on your forehead is nothing compared to Palm Sunday. Clocking in conservatively at a solid three hours, Palm Sunday Mass is Catholicism's answer to traffic school. When I was sixteen years old, I had to take a five-hour course in order to get my driver's license. During those five hours, I was shown five videos with tenuous plots about drunk driving brought to life by the most fantastically uninterested actors ever to grace the small screen. Palm Sunday's a lot like that, except you listen to a couple of elderly priests reinact Christ's condemnation to death.

I shouldn't overlook the fun of Palm Sunday audience participation, however. In a completely twisted yet wholly Catholic move, all churchgoers are forced to play pivotal role of "the Crowd", whose only line is Crucify Him! Crucify Him!

At least during the driving course I got a half-hour break to pop over to the Italian deli next door and pick up some antipasto. All you get on Palm Sunday is a wafer--which I suppose is technically more "fulfilling," but it's no tortellini salad.

My favorite thing about Palm Sunday was the unspoken contest amongst the congregation to see who could create the most elaborate sculpture from their Palms during the Gospel reading. Given that one's options were to either get really into playing the people responsible for your Lord and Savior's horrific death (weird), or try to poke your brother's eye with your palm from halfway down the pew (often foiled), or focus on handicrafts (apparantly acceptable), the choice seems pretty clear.

After a childhood of Palm Sundays, I was an absolute pro at the Palm Cross by the time I reached middle school. I succeeded in making a letter "k" a couple of times, which I suppose is technically vanity, but geez, lay off, ya Nazi. Try as I might, I was never able to complete the Palm Wreath. And once, just once, I saw an elderly gentleman leaving St. Patrick's with a Palm Easter Bunny. Aside from the fact that to the best of my knowledge the Easter Bunny is sadly absent from the New Testament rendition of Easter (but technicalities like "the Bible" weren't gonna stop this guy), I was amazed at how far he had stretched the Palm sculpting genre.

After Mass, like all good Italian Catholics, we hung the Palm Cross on the rearview mirrors of our cars lest other drivers forget how Jesus sacrificed himself as they cut us off exiting the parking lot you MOTHERFUCKING MORON ARE YOU DRIVING WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED OR ARE YOU JUST AN ASSHOLE.

Amen.

4 Comments:

Anonymous PoMo A-Mo said...

Kathy, I swear to god:
You are my absolute favorite person in the world.
You better hang out with me next week, bitch.

1:45 PM  
Blogger Meepers said...

Hope you got your cookies. Maybe those cookies could be laced with a little valium to make the copying seem less taxing. Good luck.

1:51 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

No, God didn't refill my cracker box. In fact, he made the delivery guy refill the animal cracker slot (my backup animal cracker plan) with FRUIT SNACKS.

Beware the wrath of the Lord, I'm tellin' ya.

2:16 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Also, Andy:

Definitely call me when you're home. If you're awake during normal business hours, we should definitely eat some lunches, and if not, then some dinners. Also, I'm gonna be in Ohio from the 6th until the 17th.

Man. Paid vaction. M-mmm good.
-Kathy

2:18 PM  

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